Hold My Bones Together
by vaakoh
Summary: Alcohol can both be your life line and your death bed when you struggle with addiction. It's a monster that typically goes under the radar for most, but luckily not for McCoy. With the final push from Scotty, he meets the man that might help guide his way down the road to recovery. (AU)
1. Idle Living

**Authors Note**: Hello, hello, hello! So, this is my first multi-chapter fic. I haven't written anything serious in quite some time (and here's a secret, I've never written anything serious for Star Trek in general), so please bear with me. I'm open to any and all feedback, as well as suggestions, thoughts, comments, or what have you! Enjoy!

Two thirty in the morning is rarely an ideal time to try and find an open liquor store, even if you are an expert liquor enthusiast. Hell, anything past midnight was a lost cause, but there were other means that could be taken to find what he was looking for.

Slurred words slipped from McCoy's dirty mouth which was sticky from alcohol and surrounded by neglected stubble. What could be heard was almost as sloppy as what could be seen, between his unkept appearance and his staggering pace down the street. Then again, for his walk being not much more than a stagger, he managed to make his way to a local bar within a reasonable amount of time.

His fingers immediately gripped onto the door, pulling and pushing and shaking and _yanking_ and _grunting_ in the process.

"Scotty-" he groaned, stilling tugging at the door. "Scotty!"

It only took a few moments before this Scotty fella found himself staring at McCoy through the door, arms crossed with a less than enthused scowl.

"It's well past two in the morning, you know," Scotty tried yelling through the door, but it was no use.

"I can't hear a thing you're saying with an inch thick of glass between us," McCoy's head cocked forward with bug eyes while he gestured towards the door, nearly mocking Scotty in the process.

Scotty was reluctant, but ultimately unlocked the door so his drunken buddy could slip in.

"You know what time it is and you know what time I close this place down. You shouldn't be here," Scotty kept his eyes close on McCoy as the two slunk towards the bar. "-but I'm glad you came, because I have some news for you."

McCoy huffed under his breath while he took a seat at the bar, letting his eyes gaze over the dirty glasses sitting behind the counter. The harder he tried to focus, the harder it became. Well, actually, it didn't get any easier once he stopped trying, either. His vision was fuzzy and out of focus and quiet frankly, he was finding it a bit difficult to pay attention. All he wanted was a drink, not conversation.

"I found someone."

McCoy cocked a brow, "You?"

"Not for me, ya dobber. For _you_. I told you you couldn't stay with me anymore, my apartment is just too small for two people," Scotty could only hope that McCoy would take him seriously, listen to him for once. "I found a fella through a friend who is lookin' for a roommate. He's a nice guy, Leonard. Might do you some good if you're serious about ever quittin'."

_**Quitting**_-that word, "quitting", made McCoy's stomach twist alone.

"It's not as easy as it sounds," McCoy echoed out while leaning into the palm of his hand.

"I can see that," Scotty said. McCoy pursed his lips and avoided any eye contact.

One could say he had a bit of a drinking problem. Nothing too major, but more than he could bargain for. AA was always an option, but-no, _**no**_, it _wasn't_ an option. Not unless _everything_ else _failed_, which he _hadn't tried_ everything else, therefore he didn't _need_ AA-_yet_.

He had been promising himself for the past three days, "Today will be the day I quit," with a few less drinks planned than normal. He'd work himself down to a bottle of beer a day, then cut it off completely. That's how he'd do it. Just like that, easily.

Except it wasn't easy. Alcohol was a monster, breathing the life into him, only to turn around and suck it back out. The withdrawals were painful and more so powerful than anything else, leaving him with jitters, confusion, and a grave amount fear-but he was determined to cut his portions in half… tomorrow.

Yet, from what he was hearing, that was the least of his worries now.

For the past month, he had been staying at Scotty's place, left without anywhere to go after a bitter breakup with his ex-girlfriend. He could have found an apartment to rent, but that would require money, money that he spends on liquor, money that doesn't see the inside of his wallet longer than a 24 hour time period.

Scotty, being the good friend that he is, let McCoy slump on his couch, longer than he had originally intended. _"It'll only be for a night,"_ he claimed, _"A week at most, until you find a new place,"_ he continued, until a month passed by. It was only a one bedroom apartment and as much as he enjoyed Leonard's sober company, his drunken company was a bit hard to handle at times. Scotty needed him out and this was the perfect opportunity.

"Give it a chance. You never know, he could be exactly what you're looking for," Scotty gave a smile of encouragement, hoping that it'd help convince McCoy to agree. The fact that there wasn't a complaint following his words had to mean it was a done deal-if McCoy could even remember making the deal in the first place.

"His name is Jim, sure to give you a run for your money. I already talked to him and he knows what he's getting himself into."

McCoy sighed and let his body relax against the counter. "We'll see how sure he is about that…"

"Oh, he's sure-you're moving in on Friday."


	2. Damaged Goods

That's why it won't work. This kid must be crazy. It's that simple.

A home is your safe place away from the dangers of the world, from the irritation, the agitation, the temptations, the dark, diseased sicknesses of society… Yet a stranger has the potential to bring in all of said dangers to disrupt that tranquility.

For all this kid knew, McCoy could be a sociopath, a junkie, a kleptomaniac, or even worse—crazy himself. Only a crazy would let in another crazy.

"You're just a drunk." Scotty lifted his menu, half dismissive of McCoy's fidgety behavior.

"I didn't say anything," McCoy insisted. Scotty shook his head, "You didn't say it, but you were thinking it… Jim knows I wouldn't push a masked murderer to live with him, so relax."

"Relax? How can I relax when I—" McCoy paused when he felt a weight against his chair. As he glanced over his shoulder, he found himself face to face with who he assumed to be Jim.

"I don't mean to interrupt such a nice date, but is there room for one more?" Jim's palms rested against the top of the chair back, elbows bent and body leaning down towards McCoy.

Jim might have been coming on a bit too brash. To him, he was only testing the waters. If they were going to be roommates, given both of their situations, he needed to know how McCoy handles his personal space.

"Always room for one more," Scotty announced with a grin as McCoy's brows pinched together in annoyance.

Jim eagerly took his seat and introduced himself, then explained the living conditions, rent, and all of those _wonderful_ goodies—however that wasn't what McCoy was interested in. It was helpful to know, sure, but… he had other questions.

"Why?" McCoy took a sip from the bottle in hand, letting the beer swish around between his cheeks like mouth wash. It was disgusting, but well worth it to savor the taste.

"Have you ever lived alone? It's boring." Jim's answer seemed reasonable, especially since McCoy could sympathize. Living your life alone isn't as boring as it is lonely, that's for sure. He'd never admit to it, though.

"Why me?" McCoy paused and brought his glance down to the table. "You have a vague idea of what you're letting into your home, but you've only scratched the surface of what you're getting into. So why me? Why not someone else?"

There was an awkward silence… and a longer silence… until McCoy looked back up to that god damned cheeky smile. It was cocky, smug, and oddly charming, but most of all annoying and quite frankly, he wanted to rip it right off of Jim's face. Why the hell was he smiling like that, anyways? Was this a fucking game to him?

"I like a challenge, that's all." As annoying as that answer was, it was still an answer. If he wanted a challenge, he was sure to get one.

The rest of their lunch went as smoothly as it could go with only mild bickering about the fact that McCoy was doomed to sleep on a pull out bed that extended from the couch. It was a shitty place to sleep, but he couldn't argue with the rent. Only one hundred a month. One hundred even, Jim takes care of the rest of rent, the utilities, and their food. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he hated the idea. A couch? Really?

The rest of the week also went by pretty smoothly. By the time Friday rolled around, McCoy had four boxes packed with his clothing and a back pack stuffed with a few bottles of whiskey, two CDs, deodorant, and a toothbrush. He could have sworn he had toothpaste to go with it, but the little white tube was no where to be found. Otherwise, he didn't have much else to his name, not anymore.

"Welcome to my abode," Jim leaned against the door with his ever persistent smug ass grin. McCoy knew Jim wanted a reaction out of him, of fondness and good impression, but McCoy wasn't about to give him one. The apartment was nice, but not nice enough to feed more ego through Jim's irritating grin.

"Great," was all he could conjure up as he began to open the first box to unpack. "Now where can I put my things?"

"With my things," Jim's smile only grew as _that_ provoked a brow raising reaction. "_Because_ there are going to be rules. You're not bringing alcohol into my place. You're trying to quit drinking, so this shouldn't be a problem, should it?"

McCoy's body began to react in a way that made him feel incredibly uneasy. Fear and panic started to arise, causing his heart and mind to race and jump to conclusions. What if he couldn't do it? What if he can't quit? That _word_, that fucking _word_—it made his mind scream in panic, "I didn't agree to this," his words began spilling out helplessly, accidentally, without really taking any thoughts to process what he was actually saying. "I'm not quitting, not—not cold turkey. I've tried that and it doesn't work, I will die that way. You will kill me," McCoy persisted, finger pointed towards Jim for added assertion.

Jim watched the mess before him—panicked, white knuckled, and obviously defensive. "I know you can't quit cold turkey and even if you wanted to, it's dangerous, but that's why I'm going to try and help. We'll wean you off of it. That's what you were trying to do anyways, wasn't it?"

Jim had a point. That was his plan, even if it wasn't the best. Weaning off of the alcohol wasn't necessarily the _right_ way to quit, but it was still _a_ way to quit—which seemed more convenient than getting into rehab.

"Give me what you have now and that's what we'll use. If it's bad enough that I have to get a little more, then I will, but I have a feeling you have plenty to last us a week or two." Which, Jim was right, at least for the average drinker.

McCoy reluctantly let the other man go through his things as he unpacked, making it a point to set aside the bottles of whiskey. They'd be hidden, he knew that, but it took a little reasoning to realize that it wouldn't be the end of the world. Even if he did struggle and Jim fell through on his word to help, McCoy was a grown man, fully capable of going out and buying a drink at the bar.

Then again, the concept of self control was one that McCoy would have to work on if things were to go as according to plan, otherwise it'd be wasted effort.

He had to admit though, that this kid had an over abundance of confidence and oddly enough, it seemed to rub off on him. What provoked a panic suddenly didn't seem like such a big deal, not with Jim's persistent overly optimistic reassurances that continue through the rest of the evening, like "You'll be fine," and "I'm not going to leave you alone."

It puzzled McCoy, how a complete stranger could make him feel at ease and appear to actually give a shit. Not many could, but Jim managed, despite not really knowing anything about each other.

"You're crazy," McCoy breathed out. There was no other explanation. It was that simple.


End file.
